There is a viper, that doth hide its head
In the recesses of the human heart,
There is a serpent, that doth make its bed
On manhood's prime, and God's own counterpart.
It feeds upon the honours of the great,
It mars the reputation of the just;
It eats its being into worth's estate,
And levels all distinctions in the dust.
Goodness is smitten by its bitter gibes,
Greatness is wounded by the slime it breeds;
It lives the worst of all its evil tribes,
For poisonous actions and for damning deeds.
Nay, Slander, keener than a serpent's breath,
Poisons far deeper, and yet brings not death.
It feeds on falsehood, and on clamour lives;
And Truth, like sunshine, dims its watering eyes;
It cannot bear the searching light she gives,
But in her splendour struggles, writhes, and lies
A crushed and wounded worm, that vainly turns
All ways for rest and ease, yet findeth none.
Of its own venom-breath it wastes and burns
Away, like putrid waters in the sun.
It stains, as footmarks in a frosty morn,
Left on the bruising grass by early swain;—
Truth's spring soon comes, and laughs them all to scorn;
They disappear—the grass is green again;
And hearts that feed the falsehood Slander brings
Are all that feel at last the venom of its stings.